


I Am The Watcher on The Wall

by junsnow



Series: A Feast of Kinks [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Slightly), Blowjobs, Bondage, Cousin Incest, Cunnilingus, Dom!Sansa, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Face-Sitting, I don't mention their parentage at all though, Jon is just a poor lusty bastard, Jonsa Kink Week, Light Dom/sub, Smut, Voyeurism, don't worry about the male OC though, girl on top, jonsakinkweek, so you can see it however you want to lol, this is a jonsa story folks!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: He’s hard already, just imagining what view would be waiting for him tonight on the other side of the wall. Nothing could have prepared Jon for what he sees when he finally looks through the hole.-Day 4: Voyeurism and Bondage (yes, I chose both.)





	I Am The Watcher on The Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this entry was the one I was looking forward to the most; I even wrote it first. Turned out to be my favorite among them. Hope you all enjoy.

Jon knows what he is doing is wrong.

 

It doesn’t stop him.

 

He does it every night—looks through the tiny hole between their chambers, as Sansa changes for bed, and touches himself. He feels ashamed, afterwards, of how hard he cums at the sight of her. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do it again after that first night, when he found the tiny hole in the rock, hidden behind a tapestry. He fancied himself a man of his word—that is, until his desires began to prove him wrong night after night.

 

Thinking back on that night, when he first found the perforation in the stone, it almost makes him laugh. It was comic, really, how he truly thought he would have summoned a stonemason to fix it in the morning. Perhaps he really _had_ meant it… until he looked through the tiny gap and saw _her_. She was not doing anything improper, just brushing her hair by the looking-glass, but a thrill went through him all the same, straight to his cock. When she started undressing, all by herself, and the heavy wool of her dress gave way to the soft linen shift underneath, Jon swore he could have died—with how fast his blood rushed into his cock, he thought there would be none left for the rest of his body.

 

Sansa wasn’t a creature of habit, not like he was—she surprised him. Sometimes she would sleep naked, if the night was warm enough. Sometimes she would touch herself—it was safe to say those were his _favorite_ nights—and her moans would fill her room and travel to his own by that blessed little cavity in the wall. Sometimes she would have a bath before bed, and Jon would wonder what she smelt like afterwards, with those bathing oils she seemed to like, or how she would taste if he were to run his tongue down her skin. There was never a dull moment with her; everything was a spectacle.

 

He’s hard already, just imagining what view would be waiting for him tonight on the other side of the wall. Nothing could have prepared Jon for what he sees when he finally looks through the hole.

 

Sansa is there, but she’s not alone. There’s a _man_ with her, some boy he recognizes from the stables. He’s got his hands on her waist, shaking like a leaf as she grabs his face and kisses him. Jon’s blood runs cold at the sight.

 

The lad must have been 19, or 20 at the most; he was taller than she was, and strong, too, but Sansa controls him with ease. She brings his hands upwards, letting him know she wants him to cup her breasts. Jon is seething with anger; wants to pick up his sword and storm into her room to run the boy through, wants take Sansa for himself. It’s like she can sense his thoughts, for in that moment she opens her eyes, looks in the direction of the hole while she licks into the boy’s mouth. Jon freezes. _She can’t see me_ , he reasons. _It must be a trick of the light._ He keeps watching.

 

Whatever it is, her eyes seem to carry a devilish glow as she rids her companion of his tunic and breeches. Both Jon and the boy look on in awe as she undresses herself, baring her naked body to the candlelit room. Jon is painfully reminded of his erection, which had only gotten worse since he saw her, jealousy or not. He swallows harshly before relenting, finally bringing his hands to stroke his aching cock. He keeps his eyes on her, trying to swallow down his fury as Sansa brings the boy close to kiss him again and push down his smallclothes. She starts stroking his length, and Jon can’t help but notice, smugly, that his own cock is much bigger than the stableboy’s.

 

His satisfaction dies instantly when she leads them to her bed, laying the man down on his back with his feet towards her pillows. It strikes him as strange, to have him laying thus and not with his head on the other end of the bed, but Jon brushes it aside. Sansa climbs over him, in all her naked glory, and moans as she sinks down on the young man’s cock. She starts moving, rolling her hips, and Jon is torn between appreciating the sight of her and burning with envy of the man beneath her.

_Who does that bastard think he is, to have the Lady of Winterfell riding his cock?_ Jon ignores the fact that he is a bastard too, and would give anything to have Sansa riding _his_ cock.

 

He’s rutting into his hand now, furiously chasing his peak as he watches Sansa’s tits bounce the fastest she rocks her hips. The lights must be tricking him again, because he swears she looks right in his direction as her moans get louder. He’s so close, just ready to cum when Sansa’s back arches; she grabs her own breasts, throws her head back and cries out—

 

“ _Jon!_ ”

 

He spills in his hand, peaking so hard his vision becomes spotted with black dots.

 

_Did I imagine that? Did she really just call out my name?_

 

***

 

Sansa enjoyed watching him squirm. She _had_ to, Jon thinks, as they break their fast the next morning. The curve of her smile was positively devious, he’d found, every time he dared to sneak a glance at her. He concluded she had to have known about him watching her, it was too much of a coincidence otherwise—all the times she seemed to look right at him, her calling out his name when someone else was inside her; she had to have done it on purpose, to _torture_ him.

 

She knew he had seen her, _heard_ her, and she knew that if he wanted to confront her about all it, he would have to admit to watching her. Jon brooded—it was just like Sansa, to weave this plot and leave him in such a predicament. He kept sneaking glances at her, triggering memories from the previous night—her naked body, skin flushed, writhing atop some undeserving _dolt_. Jon had to keep reminding himself to unclench his fists.

 

He wanted her, of course, and he hazarded a guess that she wanted him as well, if her calling out his name in the throes of passion was anything to go by; but having to admit to watching her, every night, like a pervert, left him with a lump in his throat. He _knew_ he was a pervert, because how else could you describe someone who does what he did? It didn’t mean he’d like to admit it, though; Jon still had _some_ pride left, at least, and the idea of exposing his nightly ritual to Sansa made him anxious.

 

What if she was only toying with him? What if she didn’t want him at all and this was just punishment for him spying on her? How did she even find out about—

 

“Jon?” She asked, reaching out to touch him arm. He jumped in his chair. “Will you pass me the honey, please?”

 

He obliged, wordlessly. Sansa thanked him courteously before pouring the honey over a slice of bread. Jon was fidgeting, trying to keep his gaze on anything but her, when a low moan called his attention. He looked at her in awe as she licked her fingers. _She’s definitely_ _toying with me_ , he decided. This behavior was a far cry from her usual ladylike manners.

 

“Sorry,” she said, sheepishly, “it’s very sweet. You should try it.”

 

Jon swallows a groan.

 

***

 

Later that day, after settling a dispute between merchants on Wintertown, Jon dismounts his horse in Winterfell’s courtyard. A stablehand appears to take his horse, and Jon is about to hand him the reins when he recognizes the man in question—it’s the one Sansa had in her bed the night before. Jon feels his temper flare, and before he can help it, he has the front of the lad’s tunic grasped in his fist, yanking him forward to growl in his face. The fact that he is a good head taller than Jon does nothing to lessen the panic in the young man’s expression.

 

“If I see you anywhere near lady Sansa again, I’ll send you foraging for hay in the Haunted Forest, do you hear me?” He snarls. The boy nods, terrified, and scurries away as soon as Jon releases him.

 

Jon hears the buzzing of the staff around the yard, glaring at them so they would resume their duties. _Ah, gods._ He curses under his breath. _Sansa is going to hear about this._  

 

***

 

He’s proven right that night, at supper. They spend most of it in idle chatter, discussing daily matters, as usual. He foolishly thinks she won’t bring it up, until she tilts closer to him in her chair.

 

“Now, I’ve had word that you lost your temper with a stablehand today. Why would that be?” She asks, mock curiosity in her voice. “Poor Dorren has done nothing wrong that I know of.”

 

Jon’s body goes rigid. “Oh, _Dorren_ is it?” he bites out.

 

“Yes, that’s his name, I’m told.” She continues, innocently, “What could this poor boy have done to make you so angry?”

 

Jon gulps as Sansa looks up at him expectantly, blue eyes burning like the cold. _He fucked you,_ Jon wants to say, _and that’s a privilege I want reserved for myself._  

 

Instead, he mumbles, “He didn’t saddle my horse properly. Almost fell off while riding to Wintertown.”

 

“Strange,” she says, neutrally. “He seemed rather competent to me, where his hands are concerned.”

 

Jon bristles at the remark, and he can see her smirk in satisfaction, as if she finally got under his skin. Little did she know she had gotten under his skin a long time ago, and he was helpless to get her out. It was an impossible task, even more so when Sansa slides a delicate hand over his thigh, making him inhale sharply.

 

“You’re the king; you shouldn’t concern yourself with disciplining the household,” she says, fingers moving up slowly. “I’m the lady of this castle…Leave the punishment to me.”

 

Jon is speechless—he looks around the hall, checking if anyone is aware of what is happening under the table; no one seems to be, at least. She finally reaches his crotch, squeezing him firmly. He hides his moan behind his cup.

 

“Punishing bad behavior is a _hard_ task,” she emphasizes, palming his stiffening cock through his breeches, “but it can be very rewarding, at times.”

 

“Re—rewarding?” he stutters.

 

“Yes. But for that, one must admit to what they’ve done to deserve punishment in the first place.” She explains pointedly, as if speaking to a child.

 

 Sansa gives him one last promising squeeze before getting up.

 

“Goodnight, Jon.” She says graciously, as if she hadn’t been stroking him under the table just a moment before.

 

He gapes at her retreating form, and if his gaze rests too long on the curve of her ass, well, that’s just one more reason to get punished, isn’t it?

 

***

 

Jon knocks on her door. He had counted to a hundred after she left, before rising and leaving his half-eaten dessert behind. He was thrumming with anticipation, eager for whatever she had in store for him.

 

She opens the door, already in her shift, and the sight mesmerizes Jon. He’d seen her wearing it before, of course, and it was lovely, but from up close he could see her body through the sheerness of the fabric: the tips of her breasts, her narrow waist, even a hint of red hair between her legs. Sansa bids him entrance, locking the door behind him. She moves to her chair before the looking glass, crossing her long, creamy legs, while she undoes her braids.

 

“Don’t be shy, now,” she addresses him, her eyes fixed on her own reflection as she starts brushing the red strands. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” She doesn’t say it as a reproach, but to him it feels like one.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed.

 

“So, you admit it, then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Say it_.”

 

“I—I’m sorry I spied on you every night.”

 

“And?”

 

“And…touched myself while I did it.” He flushes.

 

She puts down the brush, turning around to face him.

 

“And why did you really threaten Dorren?”

 

He sours at her saying the name again, but pushes through. “Because I saw you fuck him and I was jealous.” He admits.

 

“Good,” she says, appeased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

 

He exhales. “You did it to torture me, didn’t you?”

 

She looks him up from head to toe, drinking him in. “Doesn’t matter.” She shrugs. “You’re here now, and you need your punishment, don’t you, Jon?”

 

He shivers at her saying his name, nodding eagerly.

 

“Take off your clothes,” she orders, “and lay down.”

 

The sharpness of her voice travels straight to his cock, and he almost stumbles from how fast he follows her command. Sansa gets up slowly, procuring something in a drawer before she approaches the bed. She stands right next to it, and brings her shift over her head. His eyes feast on her naked body, trying to memorize every inch of her soft-looking skin.

 

“Do you want to touch me, Jon?” She asks, sultrily.

 

“ _Gods_ , yes,” he breathes. He has _never_ been this hard before. Leave it to Sansa to put him in such a state before she even touches him. She hums, looking down at him pensively, before shaking her head.

 

“That’s too bad. You’re not allowed to touch me yet. You have to be punished.”

 

She kneels by his side, and he finally sees what she had taken from the drawer—a cloth of black silk, which she uses to tie both his wrists to the wooden headboard. He whines, but he can’t deny the surge of arousal coursing through him at the thought of being at her mercy.

 

When she’s finally satisfied with the tie, she straddles him. Jon instinctively pulls, wanting to touch her, but the fabric won’t give. His cock is throbbing beneath her, silently begging for her attention, but she pays him no mind, focusing instead on littering his chest with wet kisses.

 

“Sansa, please…” He groans.

 

“What is it, Jon? You want me to touch your cock?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

 

He grunts— _when did she learn to talk like this?_

“Yes. Yes, please, Sansa.” He’s not above begging, it seems. She takes pity on him, licking her hand before wrapping it around his length and stroking slowly. Jon’s head drops back into the pillow at the touch. Her hand stops, gripping him hard by the base of his cock and making him groan in protest.

 

“I didn’t say you could look away,” she says, commanding his attention. He opens his eyes, looking up at her, and her hand starts stroking again. She moves down his body, keeping his gaze as she brings her tongue to swipe at the head of his cock. Jon hisses.

 

_Seven Hells_ , he thinks, _she’s trying to kill me._

 

The image of Sansa, naked and on top of him, stroking his cock as it slides into her mouth is going to be ingrained in his memory forever—he prays it’s not the only time he’ll see her like this, though. Jon knows he’s not going to last long, not with the way she’s sucking him. Everything’s just _perfect_ , the heat of her mouth, the wet touch of her tongue, the pressure she keeps on the base with her fingers, and _gods,_ the sight of her, looking straight into his eyes as she does it all.

 

He feels himself twitch, knowing he’s about to cum, and warns her. Her lips leave him, but she strokes harder with her hand. Jon’s hips jerk upwards, and he shouts as he spills. He looks on, transfixed. _There_ ’s another image he’s not likely to forget—Sansa, her tits covered in his cum. She follows his gaze down her chest and huffs.

 

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” she scolds. She comes closer, grasping his hair. “ _Clean it up_.”

 

Sansa pushes her breasts in front of his face, and Jon gladly obliges, licking every inch of skin presented. He cleans her up quickly, then encases a nipple with his lips and sucks. She moans for the first time that night, and Jon’s head spins with the sweet sound. Her nails rake over his scalp, encouraging him to continue, and he does, eagerly. He flicks his tongue over her nipple, relishing her reaction. He feels wetness seep against his stomach where she’s straddling him, wants nothing more than to rip the cloth around his wrists apart, to touch her, feel her come around his fingers and then, finally, his cock. He tells her as much, but she denies him.

 

“Your punishment is not over yet.” She pushes him down. He groans, ready to complain again, but then she’s bringing her thighs up, settling them around his head, and he keens at the scent of her. She looks down at him, silently asking permission. He nods, and then she’s bringing her cunt to his mouth and sitting on his face—It’s _glorious_.

 

Jon laps at her hungrily, savoring her taste on his tongue—it’s better than he could’ve imagined, but at this point he shouldn’t be surprised—nothing he’d imagined so far could compare to the real thing. She’s moaning in earnest now, chanting his name in that delicious key while she rides his face.

 

He’s desperate to make her cum, to feel her clenching around his tongue and taste the rush of wetness that would follow—so he doubles his efforts, taking her little bundle of nerves between his lips and sucking, then slipping his tongue inside her and curling it against her walls. Jon gets the desired result—Sansa shudders, her entire body going rigid as she reaches her peak. He doesn’t stop licking her, not until she brings a hand to his cheek to halt him and lifts her hips.

 

Sansa braces herself on the headboard, breath coming out in heavy puffs. She moves off him, allowing him to catch his breath as well. She’s never been more beautiful than in that moment, he thinks, her skin glistening with the exertion of her peak. He’s still staring, awestruck, when she decides to grace him with a kiss—the very first they’d shared, he realizes, and her lips slant so wonderfully against his he decides it’s a crime they haven’t done it before. Thankfully, they correct that grave mistake by kissing to exhaustion, tongues grazing each other and setting off sparks behind his eyelids.

 

They break off for air after what feels like hours, and Jon’s cock is back to hardness. Sansa feels him poking her, her blue eyes darkening when she looks up at him and settles her hips above him. She brings him to her entrance, sinking down slowly as they both moan. She rocks against him experimentally, getting used to his girth inside her. Jon’s eyes roll in the back of his head. He pulls against the ties again, desperate to feel her skin under his fingertips.

 

“Sansa,” he pants, “please, let me touch you, love.”

 

At last she relents, reaching over him to set him free with trembling hands. He feels the fabric give and rushes to take her face in his hands, bringing her mouth to his. He licks into her mouth, swallowing her moans as he runs his hands up and down her body, finally touching all the silky skin available to him. He palms her breasts, feeling their weight in his hands with amazement, and thrusts up into her.

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she whines, moving faster above him. His name comes out like a plea from her lips, and he grunts, bringing his hands to her hips and circling around her waist before flipping them over. He spreads her legs further apart, sliding deeper inside her with every thrust. She gasps, her cunt grasping him deliciously tight with the new angle.

 

Sansa grasps his back with one hand, holding him tight as he pumps into her; the other strokes his hair, keeping his face close to hers. Their breaths mingle, urging him to join their lips again in a frantic kiss. He feels a tightness building inside his stomach, fights it with all his might—he wants to keep fucking her forever, never wants it to end.

 

Jon feels her tightening around him, her calls of _Jon_ and _yes_ and _please_ growing louder, until she finally splinters into a million tiny pieces—he wants to bring her together and set her apart again, piece by piece. He’s struggling not to cum yet, wanting to prolong their pleasure, when Sansa grasps his face with both hands, bringing him down for another searing kiss.

 

“Jon, let go,” she whispers when their lips part, so lovely that it makes him choke, and then he’s lost and found—he jerks, pushing inside her with abandon as his seed spills out.

 

***

 

Sansa sighs, a sated smile on her lips. Her body is plastered to his side, and they are about to fall asleep together when he remembers something.

 

“Wait! I’ve been meaning to ask; how did you find out about the hole in the wall?”

 

Her smile widens.

 

“Oh, Jon. Who do you think put it there in the first place?”


End file.
